Every thought derives from a thwarted sensation.

The only way of enduring one disaster after the next is to love the very idea of disaster: if we succeed, there are no further surprises, we are superior to whatever occurs, we are invincible victims.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

There is no means of proving it is preferable to be than not to be.

To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.

If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.